One misty
morning he knew, he was scorned, and he was torn, that today she would drive
away. Maroon the man who crooned dreaded words, words that cannot bear to bore the world. She laughed heartily, that evil lady. Jettisoned down
the hills to tainted glee. Hannalee, she would stay. She’s one in
a million girls who prefer potpourri over milk and tea. Then she would end the
party. And sit away from the crowd. Fish a few men on the roof and sail them to
the ninth cloud. She came from Warwickshire. Who here has heard of it. I heard it
was the town where happy poets meet. Crimson Cesar, everybody knew. He wiped
the stains and housed the plains and made sure the lights were torched. In five districts
on the north of Kennedy it rained, home then meant children on the porch, and cows in chains. So one misty morning he celebrated a twenty second, wore his
socks, reset his clock, and took two dips on the pond. And then she popped, out
of nowhere his hat let drop, turned to him in a middling churn. “hey you, I remember you.”
